Smile For Me, My Love
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: "There's a distance in your eyes / That's why your smile is always such a surprise." Ryan and Claire reflect on their life together and apart as their time with one another comes to an end. AU after 1x13. Warning: Character death.


**Universe:** Alternate. Takes place after Claire stabs Joe in 1x13.

**Pairing**: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy

**Summary**: "There's a distance in your eyes / That's why your smile is always such a surprise." Ryan and Claire reflect on their life together and apart as their time with one another comes to an end.

**Inspiration: **"Elizabeth" by The Airborne Toxic Event

**Warning**: Character death

**I just needed to get this out of my system. If you read, please review.**

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**Author's Note**: I wrote this while listening to the song "Elizabeth" by The Airborne Toxic Event on repeat as I drove home from college. My mind went to pretty sad places due to the feel of the song, and since I'd just watched the season finale of _The Following, _of course my mind when there first.

**This story, however, does not pertain to, or rely on, any of the events in the finale**—or the later part of the show at all. This story is more of an AU, more of a "what if _this _had happened instead" type of fic. It's set a short while after Claire stabs Joe in 1x13. Think of this as a look into another way Joe could've punished her besides locking her up in that bedroom for hours on end.

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_**She said:**_

"_**All your songs are sad songs.**_

_**Why do you always have to see the worst of it?**_

_Could you write me just one love song?_

_Put my name somewhere in the middle of it."_

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Ryan didn't know how long Joe had been gone, nor did he care. It could have been five seconds since the madman had dropped the knife, bolted from the room, and took off into the night (to god knows where) for all Ryan knew, but to the former FBI agent, it felt like five years. He felt like he'd been laying on this dirty concrete floor with her practically his entire life.

He struggled to remember what he'd been doing before this, where he'd been and who he'd been with, but nothing came to mind. He looked down at her, unable to comprehend how she could manage to look so peaceful while so clearly in pain; how she could still seem beautiful despite being doused practically head to foot in her own blood.

His mind spun in circles as he stared at her, and he forced himself to take in every gruesome detail of her condition, every slice of the knife she'd earned because he had been too late or too slow or too unheroic for Joe's taste. _It's your fault, _he thought to himself as he stared at her shirt and struggled to discern what color it used to be. It was sliced and ripped in so many places that he couldn't tell the shape, but more disheartening was the color it had taken on. Like the rest of her, it was so red that it almost defied recognition.

_Blood red _would be the literal term for the hue, but to Ryan it seemed so red as to not even look like blood anymore. It looked like a scene torn out of an under-funded horror movie set, one that couldn't get the color just right. It looked so wrong, so foreign, as to almost seem like a joke or a prank.

That's what he'd originally thought, at least, when he'd been woken up in the middle of the night by his ringing phone: that the call was a prank. It was too similar to what Maggie had done with Jenny, too overdone. _Joe wouldn't play the same card twice_, he'd been thinking, but before he could remember that Maggie had kidnapped his sister of her own volition—not under Joe's command—he'd heard _her _voice and then he'd known.

It wasn't a prank. It wasn't a joke.

There was nothing funny about it, for it was nothing short of his worst nightmare finally realized.

_Don't come, _she'd rushed to tell him the second the line clicked open. _Whatever you do, please don't—_

Ryan squeezed his eyes shut now as he recalled that moment, recalled the way her voice had broken off as the sound of what Ryan had assumed at the time—and now knew, due to her discolored face—to be a fist hitting flesh could be heard. He'd waited, his breath caught in his lungs, but she didn't react in any way. She didn't offer one syllable of protest, not one gasp of shock, and that alone made Ryan's blood run cold. It was because of that that he knew at once that that hadn't been the first time Joe had hit her, nor even the second or the third.

She had weathered the abuse silently—she had simply _taken it_—and he had tried not to think about just how much Joe had had to put her through to get her to that point. How many times did he have to beat her until she no longer protested, until she was so passive that she didn't even cry out in pain anymore?

_I was all ready to lie in and wait, biding my time until you'd noticed something had changed, _Joe had said after he'd finished hitting her and taken the phone to speak into it himself. _But it seems to me that Claire's rather impatient to see you, for some reason I cannot _begin _to fathom… _He had chuckled then, and not for the first time, Ryan had wished he were physically capable of reaching through the phone and throttling the monster on the other end. He could feel his icy blood heating, pumping through his veins and beginning to boil beneath his skin._ You'll come to see her take her last breath, won't you, Ryan? It would be so utterly romantic, I think, if you'd do us the honor of appearing in the final act. Star-crossed lovers deserve to be together at least at the very end, wouldn't you agree, Ryan? Well, it won't be long now, so I'd hurry if I were you. Clock's ticking and blood's dripping, my friend. Chop-chop._

For once, he'd listened to and done exactly what Joe had asked. He hadn't wasted any time. He hadn't even stopped to call Weston or Parker or Marshal Turner before he took off. He simply left, speeding towards that decrepit building off that darkened side street Joe had mentioned, his mind all the while replaying the last scream of hers he'd heard over and over and over again. Joe had hung up the phone before she'd stopped screaming, and he couldn't help but think, as he heard her agonized shouts echo in his head, that she was still screaming, somewhere out in the darkness, alone with Joe…

"Don't—look at me like that."

Ryan closed his eyes, trying to steel himself before truly facing her again, but it was no use. He could still see the red stains on her face and body imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, almost like they were sunspots. He knew already that they—like the sounds of her screams—would never leave his mind. He'd remember them, he'd carry them with him, for the rest of his life—no matter how short that would prove to be. "What?" he managed after a second, forcing his eyes open so he could look down at her, meet her gaze, and give her the courtesy of at least _pretending _to be brave. "Like what?"

"Like I'm the girl and you're the…" she trailed off, her mouth falling closed when she saw him flinch at her word choice. She hadn't meant to say it like that, she really hadn't, but she'd been around Joe for so long now that the words had practically rolled off her tongue. She swallowed, wishing she'd thought of how he would've reacted before speaking, and then left that sentence hanging before beginning anew: "Don't look at me like Joe wants you to. Try to smile, okay?" she encouraged. "He wouldn't want you to smile." The corner of her mouth twitched briefly, almost involuntarily. "He'd h—_hate_ it if you smiled."

Ryan nodded slowly, forcing himself to pay attention to what she was saying and not how she looked saying it. Her face was barely recognizable anymore, dyed as it was in varying shades of blue and purple and yellow… "Yeah," he muttered hoarsely. "Sure, I'll… I'll try." He struggled to speak, to carry on the conversation, and failed. He didn't know how to tell her that it didn't matter anymore. It didn't matter what Joe wanted or expected; it didn't even matter what would piss him off—because Joe didn't matter anymore. _Nothing_ mattered anymore.

Ryan listened to the silence as it fell between them after his uninspired reply. Barely a sound could still be heard in the small, dingy, half-lit basement they now occupied alone. Joe's racing footsteps had long since faded—punctuated by the slam of a car door and the squeal of its tires—and all that was left in his wake were the twin sounds of Ryan and Claire's breathing, sounds that grew more ragged with each passing second. When he listened hard enough, Ryan could discern the sound of liquid dripping, too—a _ping, ping, ping_ sound he hoped was coming from one of the rusted pipes exposed in the ceiling, and not her mutilated body lying in his arms.

_Clock's ticking and blood's dripping, Ryan._

He shut his eyes, wishing there was a way to go back in time. He would never have gone to sleep if he knew that that was what he'd wake up to—Joe's taunts and Claire's screams. He never would have stopped searching for her for a single second if he'd known this is where she'd end up. He screwed his eyes up harder, beating back the tears he felt threatening to spill over. She didn't deserve to see him lose it after all she'd been through.

"You should've… gone after him, Ryan. When he ran, you should've… gone after him."

Ryan shook his head, denying her words even though he knew she was right. Her halting statements echoed his own conscience—when it wasn't lambasting him for what he'd let happen to her, that is—it was screaming at him for letting Joe get away. Again.

_How could you let this happen?_

"You could've caught him," she continued quietly, neither accusing nor judging like he knew he deserved. Listening to her soft voice, he couldn't help but wish she would be more forceful, wishing she _could _be more forceful. He knew he deserved it, and he wanted it. He wanted to hear her yell and scream at him for not doing his job properly. He wanted to feel her shove him and hit him and tear at him like she had when he'd lost Joey. He didn't want her like this—too weak to move, too exhausted to keep her eyes fully open, too battered to so much as flex her arm, let alone hit him with it. "You could've gotten him, Ryan."

"I…I know," he admitted finally, unwilling and unable to skirt the truth now. She was right—he _could've_ stopped Joe if he wanted to. He could have had him in handcuffs and down at the station by now—finally taken in. But, once again—as always, it seemed—Joe had him pegged. He'd given Ryan a choice when he'd entered this abandoned building—_me or her, Ryan. What's more important, putting the bad guy away or saving the damsel in distress?_ Ryan could still see the ghost of Joe's grin that had lit up his face whenever he closed his eyes. _It's not even a choice, is it, my friend? No, I didn't think it would be. Don't worry; I'll see you again soon._

"I… I know I could've gotten him," Ryan agreed finally, sniffing as he attempted to keep his voice steady and hold himself together. "I know that now, and I knew that at the time, but I… I just didn't _care_," he finally admitted, releasing the truth that had been stewing inside him from the moment he'd chosen her over him—from the moment he'd rushed to Claire's side when Joe had fled instead of chasing down the murderer. For what might as well have been the hundredth time tonight, he felt his eyelids fill with tears as he looked down at her. "I… I wanted to be with you instead, Claire."

She smiled shakily at his hoarse confession, lifting a trembling hand to touch his cheek. Her fingers quivered as they brushed against his jaw, and they trailed streaks of blood in their wake, painting his light skin in shades of deep red to match hers. "I'm glad," she whispered, "that you're here." She paused, catching her breath, and he tried not to think about just how many breaths she had left to take. He watched, feeling the tears swim in his eyes again, as she grimaced and struggled to hold back what he knew would be a cry of pain if she'd let herself voice it. He watched her, feeling just as powerless to help her now as he had been when he'd walked inside this room all those ages ago. "I'm glad," she finally spoke again, having momentarily recovered. "I'm glad you're here at…at the end."

Ryan shook his head immediately, ignoring the way his tears scattered from his eyes as he jerked his head back and forth. He wiped his face quickly, scraping at the corners of his eyes with the heel of his hand to do away with the few droplets that still clung to his eyelashes. "Don't talk like that," he ordered, his voice rough with latent denial and advance grief. "You hear me? I don't want to hear you talk like that. Got it?"

She smiled faintly at his blunt directive, as if he'd said something in a foreign language and she was politely pretending to understand. She gave him a moment—one fleeting, peaceful moment—before speaking again.

"Do you remember," she began quietly, but soon broke off, overwhelmed by a coughing fit that stained her teeth a brilliant red and made Ryan's empty stomach turn. "Do you remember," she continued when she could, "when… when we met, when—"

"_No_," he cut in savagely, his bright blue eyes making no apology as they narrowed to meet hers. "Don't you start this," he commanded forcibly. "Not now. No."

"I'm…" She stared up at him, her trembling chin the only thing flinching as her bloodstained lips turned down in a sorrowful frown while she stared right back at him. "Ryan, I'm not starting anything."

"Yes, you are," he argued, refusing to back down. His jaw tightened and his chin jutted out as he struggled to hold himself in check. "You know exactly what you're doing. And we are not talking about this. Not now."

She stared up at him for a tense moment before finally surrendering. "Fine," she said. "Fine, we don't have to talk."

Ryan exhaled, relieved. He couldn't do this right now, he couldn't listen to this right now, and he was thankful that she understood that.

"_I _will talk, then," she continued half a second later, "if you don't want to." She coughed weakly, pressing her lisp together so as to not spread more red. "You never… never liked talking much, anyway."

Ryan groaned softly, hanging his head at her words. He knew now that she wouldn't give up. She'd keep talking until she got whatever she wanted to say out, which was all well and good for her, but didn't she understand what that would do to him? Didn't she understand what was happening here? He pressed his forehead down against hers, whispering her name desperately, and Claire closed her eyes, letting his voice and warm breath wash over her as his skin touched hers. In the strained silence that followed, she could hear his wordless pleas for her to stop, for her to stay silent, and—above all—for her to live.

_Just a little bit longer. _She could almost hear him say it aloud, and that brought her overtaxed tear ducts back into commission again. _Just a little bit longer. Please, for me. For me, Claire…_

She bit down hard on her lower lip so it wouldn't shake and blinked back the moisture flowing into her eyelids. She wished she could honestly tell him she was going to hang on. She wished she could tell him she as going to pull through and survive, but that would be a lie, and she couldn't lie to him now. Not at the end. And if she wasn't doing to survive, if she couldn't abide by Ryan's last request—the only one that really mattered—what was the sense in trying to follow the other two?

She knew she was making it hard on him. She knew she was making it worse than it had to be. But it had to be done, for his peace of mind as much as hers. She couldn't leave things like this—full of blood and tears and unspoken words—and she hoped that, one day, he might be able to look back on this moment and be grateful for what she'd said (or, at the very least, not hate her for it). She hoped to leave him with something—anything—after leaving him with eight years of nothing. He was a good person, a loving person, and he didn't deserve to have nothing anymore. He didn't deserve to have nothing to keep him company but the images of her bloodstained clothed and brutalized body to look back on when he thought of this moment. He deserved to be sure of something for the rest of his life—even if she wouldn't be around to tell him every day, he deserved to know the truth—and she would make him sure he did.

"You remember, Ryan," she began softly, "the day we met?" She chuckled briefly, and though it truly was nothing more than just an amused exhale, it sounded like the loudest, happiest laugh to Ryan—just for a moment. She stared at him as he opened his eyes and leaned back to look into hers. "I didn't admit it until later, of course..." She paused to breathe, and he could hear that her exhalations had grown shallower. He could hear Joe's voice in his head again now, echoing his own thoughts: _It won't be long now… _"But you looked so handsome that day, Ryan, smiling and laughing…" Claire trailed off happily, and as she recalled that day, Ryan struggled to push Joe away and do the same. "I loved watching you smile then," she admitted, sounding almost embarrassed. She paused, meeting his eyes for a brief moment, and he knew that, if there had been enough blood in her body, her cheeks would've taken on a light pinkish hue to signal her bashfulness. "And I still do," she added quietly. "I still love watching you smile, even if I never see it these days."

Ryan sniffed, blinking slowly. "Yeah, well…" He broke off, not having a clever explanation. "Sorry," he finished lamely, "but I don't feel much like smiling right now."

"You could still try," she implored, and she sounded so earnest that he couldn't help but give it his best shot. She laughed weakly a second later at his effort, and he didn't blame her. He wasn't surprised it hadn't been any good. "That was a bad try and you—know it," she accused, her breath catching in her throat as she winced, the pain getting worse.

"Give me some time," he murmured, instinctively cradling her body closer at signs of her suffering, "and I'll work up to it, I promise. Just—" his voice cracked, but he ignored it, continuing on "—just give me some time, okay? Please, Claire."

"O… Okay," she whispered reluctantly, agreeing with him against her better judgment and knowing full well that she was only fueling his fantasies of her pulling through doing so. She knew she should warn him that she wouldn't be here much longer—Joe had promised her that she'd have only a half-hour to live, at most, once he was finished with her—but she didn't want to be the one to tell Ryan that. She didn't want to see the look in his eyes when she said that, didn't want to see him struggle to fight back tears as he calculated what little time they had left. And so she bit her lip and she kept it to herself, pressing her body against his for comfort she wasn't sure she deserved.

"Come here," he murmured, practically reading her thoughts as he reached out to pull her closer. She was just sighing in relief—that's what she'd wanted, too, to be closer to him—when she felt spasm of pain tear its way through what was left of her once-intact body. She was screaming before she even realized what she was doing, screaming and crying, her body convulsing with agony and sobs in equal measure, each feeding the other in a vicious, merciless cycle that she couldn't see ever coming to an end.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she could hear her Ryan say over and over again, the chant only ever interrupted by his own tears as he struggled to set her back down without causing her further injury. "I'm so sorry. Claire, I didn't mean to. I swear, I never meant to hurt you, I…" As the pain began to subside and her vision focused on him again, she was able to watch as the tears that had been hanging in his eyes nearly all night finally fell down his cheeks. Watching him finally let go hurt almost as much as his attempt to move her had, and she felt her heart—one of her few body parts left perfectly intact—break in her chest. "I didn't to hurt you," he choked out, his hoarse voice tearing through his throat as he crouched above her, kneeling. "I only wanted to…. I was only trying to…"

_Hold me,_ Claire finished for him silently, not having to hear him say it to know that's what his goal had been. She craned her neck to look at him, ignoring the pain that sprouted in her back as she did so. Everything hurt now."It's okay," she whispered, looking up at him and finding the blue of his eyes magnified by the tears still swimming in them. "Just…" She sucked in a sharp breath; she could feel one of her loose ribs just about to wreak havoc on her insides. "Just be careful with me," she told him with a hard-fought smile. "My ribs, they're bad. I think… I remember feeling the knife t—touching the bone, somewhere on the right… Maybe the left, too… Probably the left as well…"

"Shh," he told her, struggling to drown out her voice with his own, unable to hear the details of what Joe had done to her when he was staring the evidence in the face. His entire body shook as he stared down at her, and she could see in his eyes that he was terrified of hurting her again. She watched as he surveyed her, watched as he went through several false starts before finally reaching for her again. He took a moment to breathe, to compose himself before promising, "I'll be careful" and taking her in his arms again. It took some time, and very cautious maneuvering on his part so as not to cause her more pain, but eventually he managed to move her, to hold her in his arms.

"Th… Thank you," she whispered softly, laying her head against his chest as he cradled her body in his lap. She stared down at his shirt, watching its white expanse slowly turn red as it soaked up the blood that continued to drain from her body. She shut her eyes, feeling her stomach turn at the sight, and pressed her head against his neck. She inhaled deeply, hoping to mask the smell of overpowering metallic smell of blood that surrounded her, that was her, with anything she could find.

Her lips twitched weakly into a small smile as she breathed him in. "Mm," she whispered, brushing her nose against the side of his neck. "You smell good."

"Anything smells better than this place," he muttered, his own nose wrinkling in distaste.

She opened her eyes tilting her head back to look up at him. "Like I said," she repeated weakly, "you smell good."

It took him a couple seconds, but eventually, she saw him crack the smallest smile at her dig.

"There it is," she called softly, feeling her own lips spread in momentary happiness. "There you go."

He looked down at her, the smile still miraculously in place on his lips. "I told you to give me some time," he said, and it almost sounded, for a second, as if he were teasing her.

"I did." She nodded. "And you delivered. You always do." She paused a moment, staring at him for a short while before wondering quietly, voicing the one question that had always nagged at her for all those years and especially these last few weeks, "Do you ever imagine what it might've been like, Ryan, if…if things had worked out between us? Do you ever think about that?" She bit her lip, holding back what she really wanted to say: _Because I do._

Though she hadn't meant it to, Claire watched as her question brought a fresh wave of tears to his eyes. She opened her mouth, struggling for something to say: an apology, an explanation, anything. Before she could, Ryan shut his eyes, and she watched, her heart tearing in her chest again as they leaked out and fell down the sides of his face. "Y—Yes," he answered, forcing out the word despite his constricted throat. "Every day," he whispered truthfully, opening his eyes to find hers. "Every fucking day I think about what kind of life I might've had with you if I'd just been a little bit braver eight years ago. A little bit smarter."

"Oh, Ryan…"

He closed his eyes, turning his head away from her pity. He bowed his head when he felt her fingers reach for him, felt their tips graze along the length of his jaw. He took a breath, giving in, and reached up to hold her hand in his. He took it firmly, bringing it to cup his cheek fully like he knew she wanted to. He pressed her hand against his skin, desperate to feel her warmth, her life. Desperate to know, against all his higher thinking, that she was going to live. Her hand did not feel as warm as he knew it should, however, and he tried not to dwell on that fact, tried not to think about what it meant. He didn't want there to be a limit put on their time together. He knew it was selfish—especially after he'd been the one to end their relationship—but he couldn't help but think it. He would do anything for more time with her.

"It wasn't about bravery, Ryan," she told him in a whisper, and her soft voice persuaded his eyes to open. "And it wasn't about being smart. You wanted what was best for me—"

"And I was wrong," he cut in angrily, his eyes flashing. "I was wrong, Claire and I—"

"You did what you thought was _best_," she interrupted emphatically, "and it doesn't matter if you were right or wrong—"

"Of course it matters," he snapped, cutting her off. "It matters because I… I ruined—_everything_."

She shook her head, leaning closer to him upon hearing his voice crack and shatter with grief over that last word. "No. No, you didn't," she whispered, staring up at him. "It wasn't you; it wasn't only you. I was there, too, remember?" She smiled weakly, shifting her fingers against his cheek and slipping them between his. She closed her eyes momentarily when she felt his hand clutch hers tighter; it made her feel good, if only for a second, to feel him right there with her. "It was my fault just as much as it was yours, okay? You left but I let you go. And I don't blame you for it," she whispered, her eyes boring into his. "I swear to you; I want you to know, here and now—_Ryan, I don't blame you_."

"Claire, I…" He held his mouth open, his lips moving without saying any words. She watched him, knowing he wanted to tell her to stop again, to tell her to be silent again. She watched the emotions flicker across his face—for once, she could read him like a book—and she knew that he knew it, too. The end—her end, their end—was coming quick now. Neither of them had much time left together, and now they both knew it for certain.

She listened to him sniff to hide the sob stuck in his throat, and felt his heat as he buried his head into her neck. She bit back her tears and pressed her body back against his, not knowing how else to comfort him except to show him that she was still here, still alive. When his head finally rose from her neck and then bent down again to meet hers, she joined him halfway. Their foreheads touched and molded, and their noses brushed against one another's as their bodies moved closer to one another. "Please," he whispered finally, and she couldn't help the tears that pooled in her eyes at the sound of his voice. He sounded so pained, so desperate—almost like _he _was the one dying—and until the next few words came out of his mouth, she didn't think she'd mind dying right along with him. "Claire, please. Just stay with me, okay? I know you're hurt, but I'm begging you, baby. Please just stay here with me for a little while longer. _Please_."

Claire's eyes shot open at his words, and despite the pain she felt overwhelming her at times, and the terror at others, she couldn't help but smile at his words. "You never… never call me that," she whispered, staring into his watery blue eyes with something akin to awe lighting up hers. She wiggled her fingers between his, briefly stroking his cheek as her smile widened a few millimeters. "'_Baby._' I like the sound of it."

He stared back her, his eyes tear-filled and threatening to spill as he realized what this conversation was turning into: their final moment together. He knew this was and would forever be his last chance to say all that he wanted to tell her.

And there was _so much _that he wanted to tell her. So much that he wanted to apologize for, so much that he wanted to own up to. There were so many things he'd never said that he wished he had; there was so much he'd buried and promised himself he'd never dig out again.

As he thought of what he really wanted to say, however, he realized that all the confessions, all the apologies—everything that was unsaid and unknown—paled in comparison with the one thing he knew how to say, the one thing he knew for sure. The one thing she had to hear before they went their separate ways.

"I..." He took a deep breath, leaning his head forward to press himself even closer to her. His lips nearly brushed against hers when he whispered, "I love you, Claire."

A smile spread slowly across her face at his declaration, and he leaned against her hand when he felt her stroke his skin again. "I love you too," she whispered back, and her eyes lit up again for a split second as she added, with what he knew would be a laugh if she could manage it, "_baby_."

He sniffed, catching her eye and smiling weakly, before bending close to kiss her. He'd meant for it to be a soft kiss, a light kiss, but the moment their lips met, he couldn't hold back. Eight years of repressed love and lust, weeks of constantly fearing for her life, hours of coming to terms with her imminent death—it all came pouring out of his mouth and into hers.

He didn't even realize crushing her, suffocating her, until he felt her trying to pull away, felt her struggling to speak amidst his consuming kiss.

"Ryan," she mumbled against his lips. "Ryan, wait… Please…"

He pulled back at once, and the tears that had been swimming in his eyes earlier fell at her rejection, at his own forcefulness. He opened his mouth to apologize, to beg for her forgiveness just like he'd begged for her survival seconds ago, but she spoke before he could.

"I love you," she whispered, working to reassure him with every labored breath she had left. "I swear I do. But I…" Her chin began to tremble, and he watched, frozen with his own fear and grief, as her eyes filled with tears yet again. He had never hated seeing her cry more than had during this night; it destroyed him to watch her like this, to know there was nothing at all he could do to help. "Ryan, I'm so…" She trailed off, fishing for a word, an explanation. _I'm so tired, _she could've said. _I'm so hurt._

_I'm so close to dying._

"'S okay," he managed, swallowing roughly as he struggled to banish that last thought from his mind. "You don't need to explain, Claire, I—"

"I'm so scared, Ryan," she whispered to him, her ragged voice cutting through his and catching on each syllable as they tore their way out of her damaged esophagus. Her fingers cupped the side of his face more firmly, and her wild eyes zeroed in on his, begging for the reassurance only he could offer her. "I'm—I'm so scared. Of whatever's waiting. Or—Or not waiting."

He shook his head, not having expected this but yet still prepared. "No," he told her at once, his voice firm and hard now. "No, don't be. There's no reason to be scared, Claire." He sniffed, wiping his face quickly, and inadvertently smearing it with her blood that stained the entirety of his hands and nearly the full length of his arms. "You never have to be scared again, okay? Trust me."

"I do," she whispered, a weak smile flickering on her lips. "I trust you so much. I've always trusted you." She paused a moment, and amusement lit up her eyes for a split second as she tried to joke, "No—No reason to be scared of the afterlife after the hell I've gone through here on earth, right?"

Ryan shut his eyes, struggling to breathe deep and not think. "I just—I don't want you to be scared," he told her, trying very hard not to let his voice break. "You don't deserve to ever feel frightened again." He leaned down, pressing his face close against hers. "Don't be scared, okay?" he whispered. "I've got you."

Claire wanted to be comforted by his promise, but the doubts nagged at her. She tried to hold it in, tried to hold it back, but it was impossible. The end was coming too soon and she couldn't stay half-assured. Her chin trembled, her eyes filling with tears again as she asked, "And… after?"

"I'll still have you," he told her, bending so far forward that his lips brushed against hers lightly. It was less of a kiss this time and more of a caress, and she closed her eyes, finding momentary pleasure in the gentle feel of his lips on hers. "I promise, okay?"

She nodded, sniffing. "Okay," she whispered, giving in to his reassurances, no matter how meaningless they would prove to be in the light of day. Claire Matthews was in the dark now, and she would never again see the light—so such harsh realities did not matter to her.

All she had was this basement, this darkness, and this man keeping her company while she slowly—painfully—died. All things considered, she couldn't have asked for anything more. Ryan being here was more than she could have ever hoped to have.

She'd thought when Joe had brought her here that it was going to be all over in a matter of minutes. He'd begun without Ryan present, and the longer he went on, the more she'd expected Joe to finally kill her—either with a purposeful slice across the neck, or inadvertently through all damage he'd inflicted on her in what must've been hours that he'd kept her in this derelict premises—but he didn't.

He didn't kill her. Instead, he simply took his time: drawing the life out of her slowly and unrelentingly—taking her over, body and soul, through her agony—but never coming close enough to kill her. As the unknowable time slipped past, her prayers for salvation gradually morphed into prayers for a swift death, pleas for it, but even those went unrealized.

Her body and mind lingered between life and death for what felt like an eternity, and finally—finally when he let up—she wished he hadn't. She watched him pull that cell phone out of his pocket, and it was then that she knew she'd never wanted to die more quickly in her entire life.

She'd known at once, without him having to say a single word, what the plan was. Of course that didn't stop him from explaining it all to her—every little detail—after she'd been stupid enough as to think her weak appeals might stop him or sway his hand.

_Joe, please don't. Please, _please_ leave him out of this. Joe, please! He had nothing to do with this; it wasn't his fault! He doesn't need to be here!_

Her ex-husband had turned to her with a smile on his lips when she'd cried out, and his face was so open and sweet-looking that if she hadn't known any better, she never would have suspected his true nature. _Oh, I know, Claire. But this is the end of a rather important chapter of his story as much as it is the final chapter of yours, and he deserves the chance to be present for it. _The right side of Joe's mouth had turned up higher than the left for a moment. _And you'd like to see him, wouldn't you? One _last _time? I know you would._

Joe's taunting words tore at her now, for they were nothing short of the truth. She _had_ wanted to see Ryan; she would've done anything, really, just to see him one _last _time, just like Joe had said. She shut her eyes now, leaning forward to press her forehead against Ryan's as she beat back the memories along with the tears. "Ever… Ever since he got out, you know, I knew…" She paused to take a breath. It took a few seconds before she could speak again. "I knew I wouldn't live long after that," she whispered. "And I… I knew you'd be there to see it. He'd make sure you were there, somehow." She took another moment to breathe, finding and holding his grief-ringed blue eyes this time as she did so. "But I… I always thought it would be him, holding me still while he killed me, while I died."

"_Claire_," Ryan choked out, the word hitting him like a shot to the chest. It blew him backward, stole his breath, taxed his already feeble heart. _Died._ "Don't say—"

"I never thought it would be you," she whispered, not even paying attention to what he was saying. "I never thought I'd feel you like this again. I never thought you'd hold me like this again." She smiled, and he watched as tears leaked out the corners of her eyes as she looked up at him. "Oh, Ryan," she whispered, "thank you so much for being here. For always, always being here."

"I'm…" He sucked in a shaky breath. "I'm only trying to make up for lost time, you know."

"Ah, of course." She fell silent, staring up at him for a time before remembering something. The left side of her mouth flickered up in a smile, and he watched, interested as to what was amusing her as she asked quietly, "Do you remember that first night you spent at my house?"

Ryan shut his eyes, but she watched, alert, as the edges of his usually stoic lips formed a small smile at the mention. It made hers widen.

"You were so boring," she accused with a weak chuckle. "So scared of waking Joey. I barely got a kiss goodnight out of you."

She stared up at him, waiting for him to reply, but he didn't say anything. The smile had disappeared from his face.

"That only made me fall more in love with you, you know," she told him quietly, watching his eyes slowly blinking open. "I mean, come on. What man comes over to spend the night at a woman's house and it's _him _who ends up being the one to refuse sex?" She smiled, trying to stay light like her words, but he could tell it wasn't genuine. Her voice hitched when she next spoke, and he knew for sure now that she wasn't anywhere close to laughing as she had been before. "God," she whispered, her voice wavering with yet-to-be-shed tears, "you would've been such a good father to him, Ryan." Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked up at him. "Pro—Promise me you'll try to be in his life. Promise me you'll try to look in on him if you can. Please."

Ryan nodded. "Yeah," he told her quietly, knowing there was no other answer he could give her. "Yeah, I promise I'll try."

Claire eyed him sadly, her chin trembling as the tears pooling in her eyelids threatened to fall. Somehow, she managed to keep them in place and keep her voice steady as she spoke. "You should smile when you lie, Ryan," she instructed. "It's more convincing that way."

He swallowed roughly, nodding in acknowledgement and hating himself for making it so that _she_ had to catch him up like that, so that _she _needed to remind him to be convincing. He ducked his head, struggling to pull himself together as he nodded. "I promise," he whispered, meeting her eyes as he forced the edges of his lips up. "I promise you I'll look after him."

Claire's eyes lit up with that familiar warmth he'd always loved, and she pressed her head close against his chest. "Good," she whispered, and closed her eyes. "Good, thank you. And…" She broke off, squeezing her eyes shut as she pinched her lips shut to hide what he knew would've been a scream of pain if she'd allowed it of herself. It tore at him to watch her try to be strong for him, and he wanted to tell her not to worry. He wanted to tell her that she could go whenever the pain was too much, whenever she was ready. He spent a very long time running those words over the words in his head, but he never managed to get them out. He wanted her to stay too badly to do her the kindness of letting go.

"Th—Thank you for this," she finished after some time. "For being here, for staying with me."

"You said that already," he told her, struggling to keep his voice even and not think about what it meant for what time they had left if she was forgetting thing so easily now.

"I know," she replied in a strained whisper, relieving his momentary worry, "but I just… I wanted you to know. I wanted you to really know."

"I really know," he assured her dutifully.

"Do you?" she wondered softly, and her inquisitive tone took him so by surprise that he turned his head to look down at her. "Do you know just how grateful I am that you're here? That's it's you and—and no one else?"

"Claire…"

"Anyone else would've run and left me and tried to call for help. Anyone else would've called ambulances and police officers and the FBI…" She broke off, her breathing hitching in her chest. He watched her grimace, and prayed again for more time he knew he'd never get. "Anyone else would've tried to save me even though I'm so clearly beyond saving." She closed her eyes, pressing her head against his shoulder, right up to his neck. "But not you," she whispered into his ear. "Not you. You didn't waste time with any of that. You didn't squander what little we had left with others. You just sat down and you held me and that's all I ever wanted, Ryan."

"Maybe…" She felt his chest expand beneath her head as he sucked in a breath. "Maybe I should've tried," he whispered, his voice so hoarse now it nearly sounded like an old man's rasping croak. "Maybe I should've called 911, called the Bureau… Maybe then you'd be…"

"No." Claire shook her head at once. "No, it wouldn't have made a difference, Ryan."

He listened to her words, listened to the unwavering confidence behind them… It was silent for a short few seconds before he realized just why she was so confident. Why she had no reason to question this fact, nor offer any proof. "Joe told you that, didn't he?"

She hadn't expected hearing him say that—hearing him realize it—would hit her so hard, but when she went to reply, her mind was taken over by the onslaught of memories and her throat was filled with tears. It took her a few seconds to come back to the present, to clear her throat, and to stutter out, "Y—Yes. He did."

Neither needed to voice the other part of the truth: _He wasn't bluffing._

"How much did he tell you?"

"E—Enough," she managed to get out. "He told me enough."

"Oh, god…" Ryan groaned, burying his head against hers to mask the sobs he felt coming on. He slipped a hand into her hair, holding her closer. "You—You know when, then, don't you? He told you when—when it would happen, didn't he? The fucking—"

"Yes," she confessed, no longer able to pretend otherwise. She could hear the pain in his voice so clearly now and it made her wish she could die right now, just to spare him more heartbreak. "I do. He—" She broke off, trying to beat back the memories of all that Joe had said before Ryan arrived, but it was impossible now that she'd confirmed their existence. _It's quite interesting, you know—the human body. How it's built, how everything fits together. It's so jam-packed, this little frame of yours. For instance, if I move the knife even two centimeters, I can kill you practically at once. But if I go _here_ instead… Well, you'll want some time with Ryan I suppose, won't you? I can give you some time, Claire. Don't you worry. _"He told me exactly when."

"And you didn't tell _me_?" Ryan demanded to know, his voice cracking as if she'd somehow betrayed him. "You _knew _but you didn't tell me, Claire Why would you let me—"

"Because I didn't want to watch you count down," she interrupted desperately. "I didn't want to see your face when you realized…" She shook her head, and then squeezed her exhausted eyes shut, letting the tears leak out and fall down onto his shirt where they mixed with her blood and worsened the stain.

"You know I'll kill him for you."

She smiled weakly at the thought, the fantasy, and pressed her lips against his neck. "Be sure to use your bare hands, won't you?" she suggested softly.

"You got it," he replied. He tightened his arms around her, holding her closer as they buried their faces into one another's shoulders. He shut his eyes, breathed her in deep, and pressed tender kisses to her exposed skin as the memories of their short time together washed over him. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing, reliving their past. He hoped she was. She didn't deserve to dwell on anything that had happened today, and if she was capable of losing herself in memories, he hoped she'd do it.

"Ryan…" She pressed her face close to his neck, and he listened intently to the way she whispered his name through the onslaught of pain he couldn't even begin to imagine. He cradled her closer, softly running his hands across her back in an attempt to soothe her, as he waited for her took speak. It took her a few minutes to work up the strength to open her mouth and form words, and he refused to dwell on what that meant for the time they had left. _Just don't think about it._

"I have one more thing to say."

He shook his head. "No, you can say as many things as you want, Claire. It doesn't just need to be one." _This doesn't have to be the end._

She chuckled weakly, and he could feel her warm breath against his neck. He relished feeling proof of her existence. "So… generous," she murmured. When she coughed, he could feel her blood spatter on the skin of his neck. "S—Sorry," she whispered, leaning away as she attempted to lift her arm to wipe it away. "I—"

"It's okay," he interrupted at once, holding her still. "Don't worry about it. Just say what you wanted to say."

She nodded, continuing to take shallow, horribly audible breaths. "Okay… It was just—just one thing. I wanted to tell you, I wanted to say…" She shut her eyes, taking her time to catch her air before meeting his eyes. "I wanted to say thank you, Ryan," she whispered quietly, slowly enunciating each word so he could hear her clearly. "Thank you for never once telling me, in all this time, that everything's going to be okay. Thank you for knowing better."

Ryan stared back at her, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep himself in check. Despite his best effort, he still felt his eyes prick, still felt his breathing catch. "You… You didn't want me to lie," he eventually replied, struggling through each word almost as much as she had.

She shook her head, hating the way her eyes seemed incapable of functioning without filling with tears. "No," she replied, her voice wavering, "No, I didn't want you to lie, Ryan."

She fell silent after that, and so did he. Her head returned to her chest, her breathing went back to skimming across his neck, and for a long time, Ryan simply watched her. He waited for the moment where she would disappear, the moment where she would leave and never come back, but the moment never came. Seconds passed, minutes… An entire hour could've passed, but he'd never know. After a while, he lost count of her breaths, and the time as well. He simply watched, mesmerized, as her bloodstained and innumerably punctured abdomen miraculously continued to rise and fall. He watched, and he thought, and each time he watched her lungs fill with air and then empty themselves, he was grateful for the one extra second he'd been given with her. He didn't know how many—or, probably more accurately, how few—he had left, so he made up his mind to take advantage of them while he still could.

"I remember, okay?" he whispered finally. "I remember everything you were talking about—when we met, when I stayed over at your house that first time… I remember everything, Claire. Having dinner at Jenny's, spending nights in Richmond, planning weekends for you in Brooklyn… Most of all, I remember being happy with you. I don't think I was ever as happy with anyone else than I was with you—before or after. And I wanted so badly to tell you while we were together—to tell you what you meant to me, and what I felt, but I was never able to. So instead, when I didn't know what else to do, and when things were getting hard, I told you I needed a break. I told you I'd call…" He shook his head, brushing it against hers as he closed his eyes. "I lied to you when I said that. I told you such terrible lies, and every day since I said them, I've been trying to find the courage to tell you the truth, to fix all the wrongs…

"I was just too scared. Back then and… and now, too. I picked up the phone dozens of times, and dialed your number… I always hung up before the line could connect. I thought you'd never want to speak to me again, Claire, so I never made an effort to see you myself. I thought you were better off without me, and I told myself that you thought that, too, and that's why you didn't reach out to me, either. I never…_never_ expected it to be because you were heartbroken, because I never thought you'd to be able to love me—not after Joe, and not after what I did to expose him. I loved you—I loved you so much—but I never believed you could feel the same. Why would you, after all you'd been through? After Joe ruined your life and I smashed the pieces that were left over, that you were trying to put back together?" He sighed softly, leaning his head against hers as his arms wrapped around her back once again. "I remember it all, Claire. Every last detail." He sucked in a breath, gathering himself as he stared at the blackness behind his eyelids. "So if you still want to talk, I'll talk. We can talk about whatever you want. Just say the word."

He pulled his head away from hers then, spent, and opened his eyes finally to meet hers. There was a smile on his face as he looked at her, and though it was a faint one, it was finally a genuine one, finally a heartfelt one. It slipped off his face as he stared at her.

Though she stared back at him, her eyes looking into his face, he knew from their dullness, from their lack of life, that she couldn't see a thing. His eyes fell to her chest, and he saw that it was no longer miraculously managing to rise and fall like he'd so admired earlier.

He stared at her, and though he knew it, though he accepted it—_she was gone_—he couldn't move. He couldn't stand up. He couldn't leave.

He had no idea how long he laid there, staring down at her, waiting for her to smile back. Waiting for her eyes to light up, and crinkle slightly at their edges like they always did. He didn't know how long he held his breath, waiting for her to breathe, too, and then whisper and talk and say his name. He waited for what felt like years, waited for her to her to tease him and call him "baby," waited for her to pause for thought and then say, in all seriousness, _I love you, Ryan_ one last time—just one last time—before she left.

He was still waiting when Parker and Weston arrived, shouting something about another massacre and how maddening it was to have to electronically track the former FBI agent's cell phone to even find him these days and—_Ryan, who is that? Hardy, what in the world happen—_

He was still waiting when the EMT services swooped in some minutes later and pulled him away. He sat back, refusing the gurney he was offered, and only finally rose to a standing position when they'd strapped her into it instead. Weston and Parker appeared immediately on either side to support him, and he didn't bother waving them away. He was too tired, too drained, too unfeeling to care. And besides, he wasn't completely confident he could walk by himself, anyway. They wrapped their arms around his back and helped him to the car, and he wondered, as they moved him, if they'd noticed that he was ruining their clothes. He was covered—so completely covered—in her blood, and he knew if they weren't careful, they would be soon, too. He thought about the stains, wondering if they would ever come out—or if he even wanted them to—for a short time before going back to waiting.

The never-ending waiting.

He was still waiting when it was all written down in the case file hours later, like she was just another victim and he was, once again, a helpless witness to yet another unspeakable crime. He'd been powerless to stop it, powerless to fix it, powerless to do anything except _watch _as she bled out in his arms.

_Ryan, I don't blame you._ Her words swam in his mind continuously, and they were the only thing that kept him sane, the only thing that kept him from following her out into that frightening unknown. _I love you._

"Did Ms. Matthews say anything of particular import to you before she passed, Mr. Hardy?"

Ryan closed his eyes, breathing deep. He knew the answer at once. It was long and winding and it would take so much explanation, but it was the truth. _You remember, Ryan, the day we met? _A smile flickered on his lips for the briefest moment, and then he opened his eyes, meeting those of the unfamiliar agent sitting across from him. "No," he replied, and this time he kept his face clear of emotion as he lied. Despite what she had said, he knew it was more convincing than a smile—she'd believed him, after all, all those years ago, when he hadn't smiled when he said he'd call. If he could convince her, he could convince anyone. "No, she said nothing important."

_Nothing about the case, _he could've added, but that would've been the truth, and he'd had enough of the truth for one night.

"Well, all right, then." The agent stood up to leave, deeming this interview over, and he told Ryan as he walked to the door that he'd be in touch if he had any more questions. He'd been just about to step out the door when Ryan found his voice.

Somehow, he managed to cut through the fog of his memories to ask, dreading what was to come but knowing it had to be done, "Has anyone spoken to Joey Matthews yet?"

It took some time, and some convincing on his part, but eventually he was allowed to see the boy and tell him what happened. It wasn't until he said the words, until he shattered Joey Matthews's world and made her death all the more real, that he finally managed to stop waiting. And as he transitioned from waiting into whatever came after, he held the child and stroked his hair and wiped away his tears. He promised him—probably the only time the standard condolence had been used truthfully—that his mother was in a safer place, a better place.

It was then, after he'd left Joey in the care of a state-appointed social worker, that he knew there was no going back.

She was gone and he was alone and there was nothing left to do now expect to try to survive in her wake.

Even now, he already knew he wouldn't last much longer without her.

He wondered, as he walked through the halls of the FBI after leaving Joey with the social worker, if people had started taking bets on how much longer he'd hold on. He could feel them eyeing him wherever he went, and he knew they were all just waiting for him to give up—to break down, to fall apart, to kick it. How long did they think he had left in him? A day? A week? A month? A year?

Ryan, for his part, couldn't see himself surviving past more than a couple weeks, and that was being generous, in his expert opinion. Right now, it was a challenge to simply go from hour to hour, let alone day to day…

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her. Whenever silence surrounded him, he heard her. Whenever he laid in bed at night and prayed for sleep, he sensed the presence of her next to him, haunting him, and it turned him into an insomniac.

He wondered many times, late into those sleepless nights, if she would be there to greet him when he finally did it. There was no 'if' anymore these days—everyone could tell that now—there was only the when, and it changed from hour to hour. Some days he felt he should go on—for Joey, for Parker, for Weston; sometimes even for Joe—other days, he didn't see the sense in doing anything except giving up.

And if she was indeed waiting for him, what was the point in holding her up any longer? He'd forced her to wait eight long years, how dare he make her wait any longer? She didn't deserve to be treated like that, not after all she'd been through.

Even in his most confident moments, though, even when he held his gun or eyed the bottle of pills placed conveniently on his nightstand, he still wondered. Was she really out there waiting for him? He worried over it for hours and hours, like a dog with a bone, but eventually he decided it didn't matter. So what if she wasn't waiting for him? At least he wouldn't be here anymore. Maybe he'd still be without her, but anything had to be better than this.

Parker had taken to visiting him most mornings. She always brought coffee and bagels and she stood and watched as he forced them down, chattering meaninglessly about the weather or sports or obscure pieces of foreign policy all the while. He only ate the food she brought so she wouldn't think her money wasted, and he only drank the coffee to get a head start on his hangover recovery from the previous night. Food didn't interest him much these days. Neither did sobriety.

Weston took the night shift. He popped in a few hours after dinner, ostensibly to verify minute details from Ryan's book or about the case, but they both knew why he was there. Ryan cut him slack and didn't question him when he saw Mike snooping around his apartment out of the corner of his eye when the kid thought he wasn't looking. He knew Weston was looking for booze, and every once in a while, Ryan left an empty bottle in plain sight just for him to see. It would look suspicious, he knew, if he hid everything, so he left a few breadcrumbs for Weston to report back to Parker, and he kept the rest hidden—under the sink, under the bed, in the closet—anywhere the second-youngest agent in the BAU wouldn't dare to be caught looking.

Jenny came when she could, and she was—hands down—the worst of his visitors. At least Parker and Weston had passable poker faces; Jenny wore it all on her sleeve. She'd had tears on her face the first time she'd shown up after Claire had died and it had taken all of his willpower not to slam the door right in her face. _Oh, Ryan… Ryan, I heard… They told me you were with her; they told me you were there when it happened… Oh, **Ry**_… She'd launched herself into his arms then, making a place for herself even though he hadn't welcomed her, and buried her head against his shoulder. _I'm so sorry, Ryan. I'm so, so sorry. I know how much you cared about her, I know how you loved her…_

Like Parker's meaningless chatter and Weston's foolish questions, he didn't listen to Jenny's grief-stricken apologies. It didn't matter what she had to say—or what Weston or Parker had to say—because nothing any of them could ever say would ever change what had happened.

She was dead and, with each day he went on without her, he came closer to not going on at all.

He knew they were all here to make him feel better; he knew they were all here because they cared about him, but it didn't matter. He didn't want any of them around. None of them were her, and all he wanted—all he'd ever wanted—was her.

Each day he came closer. He sat through Parker's morning visit, Weston's nightly check-in, and he braved Jenny's teary appearances, all the while thinking of when he would do it, and how.

_It won't be long now…_

He wondered if she could sense he was coming to her, wondered if she could feel it wherever she was. He hoped she could. He hoped she knew he'd be there soon.

He didn't want to keep her waiting anymore, and when he finally arrived to meet her, he promised her silently that he'd do so with a smile on his face. She'd always loved to see him smile, after all.

.

.

.

_**She said:**_

"_**All your songs are sad songs,**_

_**why do you always have to make me feel like shit?**_

_Could you write me just one love song?_

_Put my name somewhere in the middle of it."_

_**I said:**_

"_**All these songs are love songs.**_

_**Just love, at times, can make you feel like shit.**_

_So you write a string of words down;_

_it's better if there's some truth in it._

_**I've never known love; this is just my best guess.**_

.

.

.

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry. I just had to get that out.

This story went through countless revisions on my way to posting it. I toyed with about four different endings, and I hope I finally landed on the right one.

Much happier fics—I promise—are on the horizon. This is as dark as I'm planning to get for now.

**As I said, this story went through tons of revisions, and took an incredibly long time to write, so I would very much love to hear your thoughts on it. Thank you for reading.**


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